The Innocent Virgin. Carole Mortimer
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‘And get away with it, too!’ she added wryly, absolutely positive that not a single word of Max’s rude put-down of the other woman would ever reach the pages of even the tacky tabloid Jenny worked for.
‘Because he’s absolutely brilliant at what he does, of course,’ Dorothy answered. ‘And gorgeous as hell, too,’ she added with relish.
Abby watched as Max fell into easy conversation with Dorothy’s husband Paul. The two men were of similar height and build. Paul’s blond hair was sprinkled liberally with grey, but otherwise, to Abby’s eyes, he looked every bit as fit and handsome as the younger man.
‘I would rather have Paul any day,’ she announced firmly.
‘Well, of course, having been married to the darling man for thirty-five years, so would I,’ Dorothy agreed laughingly. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m blind to the way other men look—and Max has to be the epitome of “tall, dark and handsome”. And all that brooding aloofness has to be a direct challenge to any normal red-blooded woman!’
Then Abby had to be an abnormal red-blooded woman—because she had been daunted by Max rather than attracted to him.
Well…she had been attracted to him too—but the daunting had definitely outweighed that attraction!
‘If you like that sort of thing,’ she dismissed, with an audible sniff of uninterest.
Dorothy gave her a searching look, warm blue eyes probing now. ‘You never did tell me how your meeting with him went three weeks ago…?’
Abby withstood that searching gaze for several long seconds before looking away. ‘I told you—he said no to coming on the show,’ she said with a casual shrug.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Dorothy, I really don’t want to talk about Max Harding.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he drawled mockingly from directly behind her, making Abby start guiltily. His grey eyes were openly laughing as she turned sharply to face him. ‘I find the subject of me boring, too,’ he acknowledged, with a derisive inclination of his dark head.
‘Then at least we’re agreed on something, Mr Harding!’ she came back waspishly, completely disconcerted at having him appear behind her in this way; the last time she had looked he had been deep in conversation with Paul.
‘Well, well.’ Dorothy chuckled with delight. ‘What do you have to say to that, Max?’ she teased, obviously deeply amused by the turn in conversation.
Max gave the older woman an affectionate smile. ‘That Abby obviously has exceptional taste,’ he drawled unconcernedly. ‘Here.’ He handed Abby one of the two champagne flutes he held in his hands. ‘I thought you might be in need of it after talking to Jenny Jones!’ He grimaced.
‘What a perfectly dreadful woman,’ Dorothy agreed as Abby rather dazedly took the glass of bubbly wine from Max. ‘I really will have to have a chat with Paul about the sort of people he’s inviting into our home. In fact, if the two of you will excuse me, I think I’ll just go and have a word with him now.’ She gave them a bright smile before moving to join her husband.
Leaving Abby completely alone with Max Harding. Again. And, despite the champagne she had consumed earlier, she now felt completely sober. Stone-cold sober.
‘How is it that you know the Dillmans so well?’ Max asked lightly.
‘As until quite recently I was only a lowly weather girl, you mean?’ she came back tartly.
He took a leisurely sip of his champagne, that grey gaze unwavering as it met Abby’s seething eyes. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he finally drawled.
‘You didn’t need to. But it just so happens that I’ve known the Dillmans all my life,’ she told him with satisfaction.
‘Really?’ Max murmured, his gaze speculative as he glanced across to where Dorothy was now in laughing conversation with her husband. ‘“A friend of a friend”, I believe you said…?’ That grey gaze was once again fixed piercingly on Abby.
Damn it! She was sure Max had just set a trap for her—and she had just walked straight into it. Like an innocent mouse into the lion’s den. But unfortunately she seemed to have taken Dorothy in with her, and the other woman deserved better than that.
‘That description hardly fits Dorothy,’ Abby told him. ‘She happens to be my godmother.’ Dorothy was actually the ‘friend of a friend’ who had told her Max’s home address, but Abby had no intention of betraying her godmother’s confidence by admitting that.
‘Your godmother?’ Max repeated evenly, seeming to be having trouble digesting this piece of information.
‘Yes—godmother,’ Abby confirmed, wondering what he found so strange about that. ‘She and my mother were at school together, and they have remained friends ever since,’ she added defensively, wondering just what his problem was with that. Although, whatever it was, it had at least succeeded in diverting his attention away from that ‘friend of a friend’ she had unwisely admitted three weeks ago to have been the source of his address.
She wasn’t quite prepared for what he did next. She was sure her comment hadn’t warranted derisive laughter!
But laughter was a definite improvement on his usual mocking expression. Laughter lines appeared beside his eyes and mouth, his teeth were very white and even, and he had a slight dimple in the groove of one cheek.
But none of that detracted from the fact she had no idea what she had said that was so amusing.
‘So you were telling the truth after all about your producer and director?’ he finally taunted, once his laughter had faded. ‘It was relatives in high places instead,’ he added appreciatively. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Abby, I’m not knocking it,’ he went on, at her startled and indignant expression. ‘We all have to start somewhere, and why not use the advantages—the less obvious ones—’ he gave her slender attractiveness in the midnight-blue dress an appreciative glance ‘—that you have at your disposal.’
It didn’t matter that Abby had no idea what he was talking about. His mocking tone and derisive expression were enough to tell her it was nothing pleasant. But then ‘pleasant’ hardly described this man, did it?
She gave a shake of her head, her raggedly layered hair dark and shining as it moved on her shoulders. ‘I’m not sure which of us has imbibed the most champagne this evening, Max, but I do know I have no idea what you’re talking about. So either you’re talking gibberish, or I’m just too befuddled to understand you. Either way, I think it best if we terminate this conversation right now,’ she added firmly, more than ever determined to follow through on her earlier decision to make her excuses and leave.
‘This is my first drink of the evening.’ Max held up his barely touched glass of champagne.
Implying she was the one who was ‘too befuddled’ to understand him. Well, he might just be right about that. It had been a long day—and an even longer evening.
She straightened determinedly. ‘I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure meeting you again, Mr Harding—’
‘Oh, I think we’re well enough acquainted now for you to call me Max,’ he drawled mockingly. ‘As you did a few minutes ago.’
They weren’t acquainted at all—in fact, she knew less about this man than she had thought she did the first time she’d met him. ‘If you say so.’ She gave him an insincere smile, hoping they wouldn’t meet again, so she wouldn’t need to call him anything. ‘I really do have to go now, Max,’ she continued brightly. ‘So, if you’ll excuse me—? What are you doing?’ she demanded indignantly as he reached out and grasped her arm when she would have turned and walked away.
It wasn’t just that the physical contact was so unexpected—though it was!—but also that Max Harding didn’t give the impression he was the touchy-feely type of man that